


Christmas Present

by Rosalindfan



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:10:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8943253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosalindfan/pseuds/Rosalindfan
Summary: Two very different Christmases in the Foyle household. And a seasonal twist.





	

_Christmas Eve 1926_

Rosalind Foyle cleared the plates from the dining table and returned with a steaming dish of rice pudding.

“I’ve been thinking, Christopher,” she said as she served out three portions. “How do you feel about us taking Andrew to Midnight Mass this year?”

Christopher Foyle eyed his seven-year old son whose face was one of elated innocence.

“Will he stay awake, d’you reckon?”

Andrew nodded vigorously. “Yes, Dad. Please!”

He and Rosalind had attended the service at St Clement’s Church ever since they had moved into their present home and until now Andrew had been left, already asleep, in the care of a neighbour. But his mother’s descriptions of the carol singing by candlelight in the beautiful old building had fired his imagination and for the last couple of years he’d pleaded to be allowed to go with them.

“I suppose we could give it a try,” Foyle replied. “At least the weather’s dry.”

Andrew practically bounced on his chair. “Thanks Dad. I’ll be extra good, and I’ll sing loudly, I promise.”

Foyle winced. “Not too loudly, please.”

“At least he’ll not be awake at the crack of dawn tomorrow,” Rosalind murmured in Foyle’s ear as she cleared the dishes, sending a jolt of pleasurable anticipation through him.

 

Andrew did sing loudly, his childish soprano accompanying Foyle’s baritone and Rosalind’s surprisingly rich contralto, although the first verses were more confident than the subsequent. His wide eyes, sparkling in the candle-light, as he sang ‘Silent Night’ reduced Rosalind to tears and Foyle’s voice became gruffer for a while. But a couple of unfamiliar carols, not learned at school, and the calm voice of the final reading were enough to make his eyelids droop and by the time the service concluded he was fast asleep. Foyle draped him over his shoulder and they made their way to the door at the rear of the church. Sitting alone on the back pew, as always, was the old man in his thick fisherman’s jersey and, as he did every year, he silently acknowledged their presence with a nod of the head. Andrew was carried home through the cold crisp air and, as predicted, allowed his parents a satisfying lie-in on Christmas morning.

 

_Christmas Eve 1932_

Andrew’s footsteps thudded down the stairs just as Foyle sat down with a tumbler of whisky.

“Dad!”

Foyle sighed. Despite it being Saturday and Christmas Eve he’d spent most of the day at work, his Inspector pulling rank and taking the day off whilst his Detective Sergeant and Constables dealt with the usual seasonal crimes. By the time he was on his way home the open market had already been packing away but he had managed to get a small turkey to go with the other groceries that Andrew had been trusted to shop for. Since arriving home he’d cooked a meal, cleared away and washed up. Then he’d plucked and cleaned the bird ready for the following day. It was now half-past eleven and he’d sat down for almost the first time that day, looking forward to a quiet moment before bed.

“Come on, Dad. We don’t want to be late.”

Foyle stared at his son, coat buttoned up, scarf wrapped around his neck and school cap on his head.

“What… Andrew…?"

“We are going to Midnight Mass, aren’t we?” Andrew pulled on knitted gloves.

“Midnight…? No, Andrew. I hadn’t intended…”

“Why not?” Andrew’s chin jutted out in a familiar expression. “We should. Mum would expect us to go. She was upset that we didn’t go last year.”

Foyle well remembered the previous year, how Rosalind’s deteriorating health had prevented her going. She’d insisted that he and Andrew should attend without her but he’d refused. It had been a subdued Christmas but at least she’d been there. This year her absence overshadowed all that he did – everything reminded him of her, even Andrew’s gloves which he remembered her sitting in bed knitting. He’d spent the last week steeling himself to get through Christmas Day itself, making the decision to attend church on Christmas morning as a way of doing something, anything, that would fill the lonely hours that he dreaded.

“Didn’t think you’d want to go. Can’t trust you to sing.”

He regretted the words as soon as they passed his lips. He was referring to Andrew’s voice which was breaking, wavering up and down unpredictably, but the words had come out sharp-edged and tears sprang into his son’s eyes. Yet another argument brewing - Foyle took a deep breath and prepared for the onslaught. It didn’t come. Instead Andrew sat in the other chair, Rosalind’s chair, and spoke quietly.

“I know I can’t sing this year, Dad, and I know you’re tired but I really want to go. Please come with me, please.”

Foyle put down his glass and fetched his overcoat.

 

The service had started by the time they had walked down the dark street and Foyle was grateful that the congregation’s rendering of ‘Oh Come, All Ye Faithful’ covered the sound of their entrance. They slipped into the back pew, the only other occupant being the old man in the familiar jersey. Neither bothered with the hymn book – Andrew reluctant to sing and Foyle unable to produce any sound past the lump in his throat; instead they sat silently, bowing their heads as required and letting the familiar music wash over them, each thinking their own thoughts.

The congregation had dispersed by the time they stood and left the church, the air outside only marginally colder than the frigid interior. Foyle reached into his pocket.

“Here, take the key and get the kettle on, would you. I’m just going to…”

He looked toward the churchyard and Andrew nodded mutely, taking the key and hurrying away leaving Foyle to pick his way to Rosalind’s grave. Standing in front of the simple headstone he wondered how he would get through the next day. He’d always presumed, when she was alive, that they had a conventional marriage – he the breadwinner, she the housewife. Now he realised how much he had depended on her strength and support, her social ease, as well as her housekeeping. His throat constricted tightly.

“I remember your boy the first Christmas he came – he’ll have a good voice once he’s through this.”

The sudden sound made Foyle jump. He looked round to see the old fisherman standing next to him.

“And you, lad, you’ll get through it too.”

Foyle opened his mouth to answer. What could this man whom he saw once a year know of their lives? But the old man continued.

“You thought her death was the worst thing that could happen, but it wasn’t, was it? The funeral, her birthday, Christmas – every date of significance brings it all back. It’s the anger, the fury that has to be supressed every time you think of her, the desolation that creeps up on you when you least expect it. You couldn’t do anything, Christopher, and that’s the hardest thing to accept.”

“How do you know…?” Foyle’s voice failed him. How did this man know his name? How did he know about the rage that Foyle carried hidden within him, concealed under a façade of self-control?

“You want the pain to end but how can it? It’s love and it will always be with you in some form or another. I lost my Amelia many years ago,” the fisherman indicated the corner of the walled churchyard. “I’ve had a long time to understand what love is.”

“What love is…” Foyle repeated. So many had spoken to him about grief; no-one had spoken about love. They’d advised him to get on with his life - as if he should leave behind the woman he loved. This man understood and knowing that made his burden lighter.

“And you haven’t shed a tear yet.” The old man tutted. “What fools men can be.”

A bead of moisture rolled down Foyle’s face and his throat eased. He turned to the fisherman.

“Thank y…” he began but he was speaking to an empty churchyard.

He strode up the hill with a lighter step. He would finish that whisky, raise a silent toast to love and loosen the reins on his emotions – perhaps.

 

_Christmas Day 1932_

Despite its size, the turkey had been delicious, Andrew’s groceries had included some unforeseen treats and the day had not been as difficult as Foyle had anticipated. He had focussed his attention on making his son’s Christmas enjoyable but now he wanted some time to indulge his own curiosity. Dusk was a good half-hour away as he strolled down the hill towards the church so when he found the stone in an untended corner it was not a lack of light but the lichen that made it difficult to read. He bent closer.

Amelia Paright, Beloved Wife of Jabez, Died 25 December 1833

Jabez Paright, Faithful Husband, Lost at Sea September 1867

**Author's Note:**

> Well... it's not Christmas without a ghost story, is it?  
> Merry Christmas to all readers and writers.


End file.
